


were we the belly of the beast or the sword that fell

by elsaclack



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Kiss Prompt Collection, Oneshot collection, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Romance, Starmora, and i've waited far too long to cross-post this, anyways i've procrastinated long enough here we go, hahaha how bout that crippling anxiety, hi i'm new
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 17:58:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16958808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsaclack/pseuds/elsaclack
Summary: The expanse of inky blackness sprawled out before her seems peaceful in spite of Drax’s mind-numbing laughter booming through the Benatar, and though the sound of it grates against her ears even after all the time she’s spent in close quarters with him, she feels her lips twitching, fighting against a smile. He’s off somewhere in the bowels of the ship with Mantis, probably exploring whatever areas they’ve not yet discovered. And she knows Rocket’s busy arguing with Groot near the storage area - apparently explosives don’t mix well with whatever kindling Groot has started to shed. And Peter -He’d shuffled off to the captain’s quarters with the earpieces of his Zune tucked securely in his ears some time ago.It seems that all is right in the galaxy.For now.





	were we the belly of the beast or the sword that fell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [philthestone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/gifts).



> **CHAPTER SUMMARY:** 5\. hands on the other person’s back, fingertips pressing under their top, drawing gentle circles against that small strip of bare skin that make them break the kiss with a gasp
> 
> hi i'm new to the fandom and i'm very nervous to be cross-posting but i loved the movies and i let phil talk me into doing this SO here we go
> 
> title is from a song called The Stable Song by Gregory Alan Isakov!!

Peter’s clothes are far too big for anyone’s good.

Two rolls of the cuffs to his sweater still leave the sleeves hanging almost comically over Gamora’s fingertips, and a sharp wave of irritation seems to rattle her very bones as she rolls the sleeves back for a third time. They still fall almost to her knuckles when she lets her arms straighten by her sides - but it smells like he does when he’s fresh out of the showers, which is decidedly the best he ever smells, considering he usually wreaks of engine oil.

Some derisive voice in the back of her mind is warning her about how impractical the garment is in the event of an attack - how easy would it be for the excess material to catch on splintered metal? - but she ignores it as she pads into the Benatar’s common area, eyes already fixated on the viewport. They’ve only had this ship a week, their collective need for space finally eclipsing whatever nostalgia kept them anchored to the Milano, and despite the fact that she spearheaded the campaign for a larger ship, she finds herself aching for something familiar and comfortable; something she’s yet to really find on the Benatar.

Aside from Peter’s sweater, discarded in the narrow space behind the captain’s chair, likely tossed there after their first joyride in the new ship and promptly forgotten about.

They’re en route to a small cluster of dwarf planets fifteen skips away but they’re taking it slow - the way they’ve taken to traveling following a job. She’s tired and her muscles burn in that good, overused way; the gritty exhaustion setting in behind her eyes promises a deep and dreamless sleep tonight. Perhaps she could get away with retiring early.

The expanse of inky blackness sprawled out before her seems peaceful in spite of Drax’s mind-numbing laughter booming through the Benatar, and though the sound of it grates against her ears even after all the time she’s spent in close quarters with him, she feels her lips twitching, fighting against a smile. He’s off somewhere in the bowels of the ship with Mantis, probably exploring whatever areas they’ve not yet discovered. And she knows Rocket’s busy arguing with Groot near the storage area - apparently explosives don’t mix well with whatever kindling Groot has started to shed. And Peter -

He’d shuffled off to the captain’s quarters with the earpieces of his Zune tucked securely in his ears some time ago.

It seems that all is right in the galaxy.

For now.

The glass is cold beneath her fingertips but she flattens her palm against it anyways, stepping up close enough that her breath fogs the glass when she exhales. The world outside her window is still and quiet, and the stars winking on the horizon don’t know her name or where she comes from or who she is. The world outside her window is still and quiet and indifferent and a gaping, yawning maw, all razor-sharp teeth ripping her apart. The world outside her window is a bottomless abyss and she’s falling, falling, falling -

Peter’s out there.

He stands between the stars and it’s like he was made to be among them - like he was made of them. He stands between the stars and he’s beautiful, he’s lovely, he’s looking right at her.

His  _reflection_ is looking right at her.

He’s standing in the doorway when she turns around - just in time to catch his eyes trailing up her body, fixating on his sweater. “Hey,” he says, and his voice is doing that thing again - like his words are stuck in his throat. “You, uh…you okay?”

It’s a stupid, stupid question.

“You found my sweater,” he says, stepping further into the room, apparently emboldened by his own stupidity (and now that she’s thinking about it, of  _course_ he is). “Been looking for it all over the place.”

She glances down at the sweater in question before meeting his eyes again. “What was that Missouri tradition you told me about again? Finders keepers?”

Whatever affection softening his brow diminishes, giving way to a more familiar, playful scowl. “Had a feeling that one would come back and bite me in the ass,” he mutters.

A moment passes in comfortable silence. The whole expanse of time and space is unfolding somewhere behind her back, tugging at the frayed edges of her awareness, but she pays it no mind; not when Peter looks at her like that, like she’s a Missourian sunrise personified, like she isn’t capable of horrific things, like she’s as soft and lovely and beautiful as he is. Slowly, he approaches her; slowly, he offers her a hand.

In a movement that has already become endearingly familiar, she slides her fingers over his palm and lets him pull her into his body.

She falls into step with practiced ease as he begins to sway, no longer bothering to fight the smile curving her lips upward. He’s gazing down at her with a half-lidded smile and humming a tune she doesn’t yet recognize under his breath and it’s comfortable, so disarmingly comfortable to be with him like this. Perhaps enjoying this is betraying some deeply ingrained need to eliminate vulnerability; if it is, she passed the point of caring long ago.

(Beneath the flashing lights pouring in through the viewport on the quadrant, watching the colors illuminate the shadows of his face, overcome with an emotion she’d been fighting for so long, suffocating beneath the weight of some unspoken thing -)

It’s easy, what they have. It’s comfortable. It’s familiar.

He holds her close even after he’s dropped her hand, opting instead to flatten both hands against her back, his contented sigh blown out through his nose warming her shoulder as she carefully wraps her other arm under his armpit, fingers curling over the top of his shoulder. This is familiar, too - though it’s newer than the last stance. She shifts the grip of her other hand to match and leans forward, until her forehead brushes against the soft flesh of the crook of his neck. Her fingertips are beneath her temple but she doesn’t care, far too focused on the soft graze of his thumbs over his own sweater, caressing her back.

It’s here that she has an absurd thought: that no matter what galaxy they’re saving or what ship they’re piloting or what job they’re working, she’s going to be okay so long as there’s room for her to dance with Peter.

As if sensing the truly gag-worthy thoughts running through her mind, he noses along her other temple - a signal for her to pull back, to look him in the eye. For a moment she worries he’ll try to make her talk about it - about anything - but the moment passes when she meets his gaze. He looks just as contemplative as she feels - save for the flame of determination licking at his irises.

It’s the last thing she sees before he tilts his head toward her and her eyelids flutter shut of their own volition.

Kissing Peter is, objectively, another familiar activity - but the thrill that washes through her system would suggest otherwise. He’s too good at it for it not to be thrilling. Granted, her frame of reference is a bit limited in comparison to his, but she’s fairly certain anyone would be hard-pressed to find a being that so flawlessly balances firm and encompassing with gentle and thoughtful.

And he is  _extremely_ thoughtful. He’s patient, he lets her set the pace, he lets her take the lead. His hands never stray from where she’s comfortable, never wander unless her express permission is granted - all while hers stay firmly planted on his shoulders, his neck, and once, his hair.

It’s not that Gamora doesn’t know what to do. She’s been to too many planets, seen too many species to not know what to do. She  _knows_ what to do, and yet - and yet.

And yet.

One of his hands has migrated down to her waist, thumb skimming up to graze against her lowest rib, and it all seems so natural to him - like he’s not even affected by the hypnotic movements of their lips or the warmth radiating in the space between them. He’s still humming but it seems almost involuntary, as if the unyielding exuberance of his being is pouring out of him at her proximity. He hums when she pulls her hands down and around to gently, experimentally touch his chest; he hums again when she moves them lower, down his sides, counting each ridge of his ribs until she feels the uneven material of his pants beneath his shirt. The hand not anchored to her waist has shifted up the back of her neck and into her hair - a less-ventured-upon location - and as his fingers tangle in her hair, the hem of his shirt lifts just slightly.

Her fingers graze along the exposed skin his back by accident. She only has enough time to register that it’s smooth, smoother than his face, before he rears back, breaking the kiss with a gasp.

“I-I’m sorry,” she stammers, “I didn’t -”

“It’s okay,” he interrupts quickly, before sweeping her back into another kiss - harsher than before, as if some portion of his control over himself has slipped, revealing just how desperate he feels. It doesn’t take but a moment for her hands to find their way back to his hips - this time she presses her fingertips under his shirt with a purpose, tracing the natural curve of the muscles all the way to his spine and back again. He’s humming almost continuously now, low in his throat, and his tongue pushes deeper into her mouth. And if she could barely handle the way he kissed before, she’s completely doomed now.

Although it’s so worth it to hear those little breathy gasps each time she traces a lazy, looping circle over his skin.

“Shit,” he gasps, yanking away as a shiver wracks through his body. She’s concerned for all of one second, before recognizing his expression as one of sheepishness - and oh, okay,  _she_ did that to him. “That’s, um - that’s new.”

There was a time not long ago when she would have immediately jumped to the defensive, spouting off all manner of accusations to deflect the perceived criticism back on him - of course, there was a time not long ago when she never would have allowed herself to stumble into such a vulnerable a position to begin with. So she bites down on the inside of her cheek and smiles - small, repressed, but certainly pronounced - and he smiles back with all the soft affection in the galaxy shining in his eyes.

“I’m beat,” he says as he steps away - reaching around to keep their hands linked before her fingers slip away from his back. “I was thinkin’ of heading to bed in a minute.”

There’s an invitation masked somewhere deep beyond the words, but she knows without him having to say it that he won’t press her if she chooses to stay here. The idea of solitude certainly is tempting (she’s always needed at least a few hours to herself after a job to decompress), but there’s a universe unfolding in Peter Quill’s eyes and she’s never been good at avoiding him, anyways.

“Bed sounds good,” she says, and he grins, walking backwards toward the doorway and pulling her along with him. “I do need to change, though -”

“Why?” he interrupts sharply, stopping dead in his tracks. “What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?”

She glances down at the oversized sweater hanging from her body and back up at him again. “Well, first of all, it’s far too large.”

“It’s a  _sleep-shirt_ , Gamora. It’s  _supposed_ to be that big. It’s too big for  _me_.”

“It’s impractical and it would probably  _choke_ me in my sleep -”

“Unless you’re doing gymnastics, there’s no way that would happen in real life. Next argument.”

“It’s  _yours_. Don’t you want your clothes back?”

“Nah,” he says with a shrug, dropping her hands and spinning on his heel, loping through the doorway gracefully. “It looks  _way_ better on you.”

Heat rises up her neck and pools in her cheeks as she watches him disappear around the corner - the emptiness still tugs around her navel but there’s a warmth there, too, an undeniable flame stoked by the ridiculous idiotic stupid wonderful amazing man now moving toward the captain’s quarters.

Thirteen other arguments for why she needs to change have already solidified in her mind, and she’s halfway through a fourteenth, when Peter’s head suddenly appears around the side of the doorframe. “You comin’?”

She sleeps in his sweater.


End file.
